The administrative plaza was… Refreshing. One could only stomach walking through identical dystopian halls for so long. It had become routine however, so when I first entered the atrium and was greeted by a welcoming atmosphere, was it any wonder that I became surprised?

Maybe the constant endless corridors were conditioning me, to the degree that when met with anything remotely warmly inviting I stood stumped.

Whatever the case, the room was nice. A breath of fresh air. A place where I could imagine myself sitting down with a cuppa, relaxing, letting my worries fade away while steaming aromas softly wafted from my choice of drink, a drink that heathens typically called 'leaf water.'

If there was anything the Union Jack had done right, it was the divine combination of sweetness and bitterness coming from the Raj back then. Oh, I could feel the honey-glazed elixir tickling my nostrils now, but oh so out of reach!

Ahem. My fascination with tea aside, the room was pleasant, a stark contrast when compared to general Foundation decor.

The room itself featured a polished double-crescented reception desk that took centre stage, the object any prospective entrant would first zero in on when entering from the direction I arrived.

Occupying the middle-of-the-hall reception desk was a smartly dressed female receptionist, clad in a tasteful well-fitted grey blazer accompanied by a white undershirt, a pair of steel-coloured glasses stylishly rested on the brim of her nose elegantly framing her light brown eyes as her chestnut hair cascaded down to her shoulders, professionally combed to perfection. The secretary idly shuffled paper stacks as the tip of her tongue barely peeked out of her lips while she concentrated on the bureaucratic task.

She was, Imma be honest boys, she was drop-dead gorgeous, a real bombshell. A ten out of ten, a gal people would go gaga over, at least in the States. Enough to prompt the impolite question whether or not she got her profession through competency or more unsavoury methods.

Prime office bunny material. Was that sexist? Is my previous world's pop culture corrupting my preconceptions of model-worthy people?

In all likelihood, yes.

Hey, I trust the Foundation enough to not fall into those corruption pitfalls, if anything, being super good-looking in the Foundation would garner more scrutiny than an unassuming person would receive. Thus if she didn't have the credentials, she wouldn't be stationed here.

I mean, when I first saw her - the reason I did a double take when seeing her appearance in the first place wasn't 'She's gorgeous!' it went more like, 'Wait, you're not a balding geezer in a white suit grumbling about your colleagues?' Now it's after that I thought, 'Wow, she's hot.'

Of course, as said, she's definitely hot, but that was secondary. If I was a Foundation recruiter who'd watched enough Hollywood movies I'd believe her a spy or something if she proclaimed her willingness to join an organisation where being murdered in the workplace is a distinct possibility.

That Olivia last name not remembered girl was decent-looking, but still within normal limits of attractiveness. This one could be a model with ease and rake in effortless cash. Why risk your life for a morally grey organisation when a life of luxury was a stone's throw away?

She's gotta be exceptionally dedicated to the cause or some such.

Whatever the case, it didn't personally matter to me. Who gives a shit if a random secretary is abnormally good-looking when your life's on the line; I didn't care.

I slowly blinked…

Awkwardly trying to understand a stranger's motives for not taking the easy path and fumblingly trying to justify my motives for taking unprecedented interest in a secretary of all things, I segued back into describing the plaza in my mind to avoid thinking any deeper on the matter.

I did want to mention however that when viewing the talking point through a more pragmatic lens, I realised I'd mercifully grown more alert due to the internal discussion, the subject energising me enough to shave off a clump of the malaise I'd found myself suffering.

I was still tired, less so now, but instead of 'dead tired, I will collapse any second.' It became, 'I could probably speak coherent sentences for another hour or two.'

So that's a plus.

I gripped my P90 a mite tighter as I walked towards the reception, swivelling my head in the meantime to take in the atrium further.

While the desk and the receptionist were eye-catching, they were only a small part of what made me appreciate the design of the space.

The ground floor of the expanse featured besides the reception desk two separate lounges situated on the west and east of the room respectively. Decorated with several comfortable white-greyish couches, they seamlessly distinguished themselves ever so slightly from the stark white walls. The upholstery based on my act of eyeballing them stood undoubtedly luxuriously fluffy. To the point of, dare I say it, decadence.

It was such a juxtaposition from the previous hall I'd just traversed - I didn't understand why the administrative main hub of all places for it had to be the main hub was so lavishly decorated.

Potted plants; not cacti! Lined the walls revitalising the office furnishing to the point of glowing green vibrancy, viridescent leaves fit to be originating from the Amazon rainforest stretched upwards as they meanderingly competed to reach the ceiling where nourishing afternoon light benevolently shone down upon them.

Populating the couches in the eastern part of the room were two middle-aged men dressed in standard office fatigues quietly conversing amiably in an out-of-the-way corner, on the table they were using an abandoned chess set lay forgotten in favour of whatever topic they were discussing. The last occupant of the main hub-like room was a Foundation guard in full regalia, resting against the wall right beside the other perpendicular entryway, having bunched up his balaclava up to his nose to comfortably nurse a cup of what I assume is coffee. Through the corner of my eye, I could see my unsuspecting 'brother' in arms disinterestedly tracking my approach to the reception desk.

In addition to everything mentioned, two symmetrical spiral staircases, constructed out of metal, sat positioned at the opposite ends of the room. Both led up to a circular catwalk serving as a gateway to various office spaces. The curved walls along the round walkway were adorned with doors, the whole lot emblazoned with individual plaques, presumably detailing whoever inhabited the workrooms. Squinting, I couldn't make out what stood on the plaques - they were too far away.

The upper passageway further housed two standard linear staircases, providing a route to even greater heights, as the catwalk in total held three stories, each floor lined with its own doors.

Strangely, as a former construction worker turned guard for an organisation straight out of a conspiracy theorist's wet dream, I felt that while the catwalk was impressive, it wasn't structurally sound.

It was held up by horizontal wall brackets which, hey, they'll bear a high load alright. The problem was, if an SCP goes, well, I don't know, snip-snap, the catwalk would hundred percent come tumbling to the ground.

Now normally that shouldn't happen since with enough heavy-duty fasteners and brackets, at most a small part of the catwalk would take a tumble, the construction dudes, whoever they were, had skimped out on the load bearers.

Nah, seriously, it's bad. OSHA would not approve. I reckon whoever built this thought it was going to be a temporary thing or alternatively they were incompetent. I lean towards the latter, but the former is nearly equally likely.

Nonetheless, bad construction notwithstanding, there was one final distinct 'captivating' characteristic the room held.

Remember how I called this place an atrium? Well, it was because it was.

The ceiling, in traditional atrium fashion, possessed an aluminium framework interspaced with expansive bulletproof glass panels, the framework was crafted to resemble the Foundation's three-arrowed emblem, thus when the sun's natural light shone down upon the military installation's roof, a logo shaped shadow in between sol's glaring rays consequently blanketed the admin hub in an oppressive big brother esque reminder of who the blacksite employees worked for.

I thought it was neat. There was probably some symbolism I wasn't catching on to, the shadow interplaying with the light, possibly an allegory of the motto, we die in the dark so they may live in the light or something to that degree.

I couldn't proclaim anything for certain. Sue me; I wasn't a philosopher.

Speaking of design philosophy, the architect did a good job, the craftsmen levied however, not quite. Unless the architect was the one who directed the builders to cut back on weight-bearing brackets, provided that was the case, both parties were complicit in not following OSHA law.

I say that under the most likely mistaken belief that OSHA holds even the slightest influence over Foundation building practice.

Y'know, guys, I'm starting to believe the amoral orphan-crushing machine institution doesn't permit unions; not even collective bargaining agreements.

Who'd be the corresponding union equivalent for the SCP Foundation in the first place? The Ethics Committee? I fucking guess so.

On a different note, the hub/atrium/room/plaza was still neat and comfy, provided the potential occupier could ignore the overbearing SCP symbol.

I reiterate, I'd be fine placing my bottom on a couch here whilst enjoying a beverage, preferably tea - though I wasn't super picky, I could go for anything hydrating right about now, seeing as the throat was parched and the lips were chapped. I ran my tongue over my lips, wetting the balaclava slightly, yeah, definitely chapped.

I absentmindedly scratched my temple using the gloved hand I'd found myself possessing, at least I was still a dude, not having to deal with body dysmorphia was nice. Apart from that, I kinda went on a tangent huh. Moreover, I'd halted mid-stride around the halfway mark to the reception desk to take in the atrium more thoroughly, to the visible bemusement of the receptionist who'd started to straighten her posture in anticipation of my arrival, and when I didn't immediately proceed in her direction after a few seconds of loitering, she'd kind of slumped down in her chair and continued her initial toil, which was sorting through an endless sea of paperwork.

I pity her.

Well, whatever. Let's see if I can get an HR appointment in the SCP Foundation. Couldn't be harder than any mundane corpo, right?

I finally started walking up to the reception desk, making the secretary perk up a second time.

Arriving, I tried to pleasantly ask, "Hello, I wish to meet Anderson from Human Resources."

The hot secretary blinked, "Do you have an appointment?"

"I was thinking it might be alright for me to just… ask to meet him? In a more drop-in fashion, I guess. If it helps, Agent Wilk recommended that I talk to him."

"I can't make-" Slowing her speech in hesitation before picking up speed again, she continued, "-any promises about his availability, but I'll check if he's in."

Turning to the old reception computer located on a lower section of the desk, she started navigating whichever program they used for situations like this.

"Uhh, is it Anderson with one S," she asked without turning, "or Andersson with two?"

I blanked. "The one who transferred from Site-37, if I'm not mistaken."

"Anderson then, okay, let's see…" The receptionist brightened after a moment's search, "Oh! You're in luck, he's in his office at the moment, I'll just send him a ping… And we'll see if he's able to meet with you." She turned back to me, sporting a practised broad smile, "Was there anything else I could help you with, Agent?"

Too bright! "No, that should be all, thank you."

The computer emitted a ding! Causing the receptionist to spin in her ergonomic chair to face it. "He wants to know who's requesting a meeting, what should I tell him?"

I dithered for a heartbeat, "Err, tell him Agent Jack by recommendation of Agent Wilk wishes to see him to discuss a matter of importance."

As I talked, she typed, repeating what I said under her breath, "Agent Jack wishes to meet with you by recommendation of Agent Wilk, to discuss a matter of grave import. At your earliest convenience."

It only took a few seconds before the computer let out another ding!

Once again, without turning, the secretary relayed the message received, "He asks for clarification, is it Agent Wilkensen," Stumbling over the name, she attempted to pronounce the surname once more,"No, Agent Wilkenson, that you meant?"

"I know him only as Wilk, but yes, probably," I affirmed.

"Okay, Agent Jack confirms that it was Wilkenson who recommended that he talk to you regarding this confidential matter."

"Is that good?" She queried.

I leaned over the desk to see what she wrote, very serious sounding but… "Looks good to me."

"Then Enter! And it's away."

I stood, she sat, in place for an estimated twenty seconds before the computer gave away its ding! noise for a third time.

"Let's see," The receptionist hummed, "may arrive… five minutes… Great! He'll be waiting for you in his office on the first catwalk floor, room nine. He needs to finish some work, so he'll be ready in five."

"Good, I suppose in the interim I'll take a seat."

For whatever reason, this caused her to lean in conspiratorially, faux whispering, "There's a coffee dispenser over by the couches on the left; I don't think Anderson would mind."

"That's sweet but I don't drink caf."

She raised an eyebrow, "It also dispenses hot cocoa?"

Now that was tempting. "I am thirsty…" I tilted my head in thought. "Why not? I'll grab a cup. Thank you for your help Miss..?" As I thanked her, I forced myself to muster a tired smile that I knew went unseen due to the visor, balaclava ensemble.

In response to my gratitude, her grin returned, and she introduced herself, declaring, "Belle, don't mention it."

I cradled the rich chocolate beverage, giving it a moment to cool as I gently blew on it. When it reached perfect temperature for consumption, I indulged in casual sips until the five minutes passed. The liquid left a warm fuzzy feeling, smoothly gliding down my throat and settling into the embrace of my stomach.

It wasn't the best hot chocolate I've drank – It didn't matter; the added warmth more than made up for it. Thus, it was acceptable. I hadn't realised just how cold I felt despite wearing a full uniform.

Regardless I had manoeuvred myself up the catwalk and was now standing in front of, according to the plaque, 'Tom Anderson, Human Resources & Diplomatic Liaison.'

There was a, I believe, glued gold faded nine affixed to the door in the top right corner.

Man, the administrative department of this site had it good. I can't imagine a reality where the other local site departments weren't, at the very least, a smidge jealous. I would, I'd be jealous for sure.

I digress.

Facing Anderson's personal office entrance, I knocked twice.

The door promptly buzzed and a clicking sound followed as it unlocked automatically. Remote-controlled lock? Most likely.

I gripped the handle, pulling downward; Simultaneously, I pushed forward, leading the door to swing open.

Entering I was greeted by a sparsely decorated office – Wait was that a GOC poster beside an SCP Foundation poster?

"The poster confounds you, Agent? You're not the first to be surprised, though in hindsight, many realise they should've seen the contents of the explanation coming."

I dragged my eyes away from the posters and took in the man who'd stood up from his chair.

Anderson cut an impressive figure, confident gunmetal blue eyes, salt-and-peppered hair adorning his scalp, hinting at experience. Not to mention, his practically everything reinforced my mention of experience.

What the fuck. He stood straighter than any man I've ever seen, his voice was gravelly smooth, his suit ironed to sublimity, his beard expertly trimmed, an air of assured composure surrounded him.

This Anderson fella oozed, 'I'm a nice guy, I know what I am doing, so I recommend you keep quiet when I speak.'

Nah, this man made me feel inadequate and somehow made me not bothered by it.

He patiently faced me wearing a small smile. Unbothered, as I scanned him from head to toe.

You know who he reminds me of? Fictional butlers: Alfred Pennyworth, Sebastian Michaelis, Jeeves, Higgins and the like.

On that note, didn't an SCP butler exist? I couldn't for the life of me remember the name nor the number.

I cleared my throat to dispel the self-inflicted nervousness that had unexpectedly clobbered me over the head. "It's a… Unusual o-object to find in… Foundation…" I trailed off at the end, uncertain.

Anderson smirked, "Foundation custody? Not to mention so boldly, I think some would call it a taunt, no? My new colleagues have expressed a similar sentiment. Rest assured, the reason is not so base." He reached out his surprisingly calloused hands for a handshake.

I clasped his hand in mine; he had a firm grip. "Tom Anderson, Human Resources and a Diplomatic liaison on a need-to-be basis, as you may know."

"Agent Jack – Just Agent Jack."

Anderson laughed lightly, "People are seldom so simple as to be solely defined by their occupation, but by all means," he flashed me a secretive smile, "keep your secrets."

I chuckled nervously.

"Please take a seat," He motioned to a steel chair opposite his ergonomic chair, an office desk nestled in between the two. "My schedule is relatively clear for the next hour, so don't feel stressed or pressured; everything will take the time it needs."

I took a seat and placed my P90 on the floor, after which I cleared my throat for a second time, "The GOC poster, what's the story behind it?" Sitting on the uncomfortable steel chair, I noticed a framed family photo which had been hidden behind Anderson's computer. It contained a younger yet haggard Anderson flanked by a similarly aged woman and two children.

He noticed me looking, "My beloved wife, Isabel, my twin daughters Anna and Ella." Anderson turned melancholic, as he continued, "All but Isabel are lost to me now."

Woah. "My condolences."

The man sitting in front of me did an about-face in emotion and grinned, "Yes, it was a harrowing experience seeing them insist on leaving the nest indeed. They say time heals all wounds, yet those halfwits were clearly wrong," Anderson paused to lean forward, "I am, after all, still upset."

Uh, whiplash, but okay.

"I see." (I didn't see.)

He seemed to notice my confusion for he backed off to ask, "Scotch? I've got some alcoholic drinks squirrelled away," Anderson patted the table, "If a guest is particularly thirsty, an old man may share a drink of Russian bent."

"I just drank a cup of cocoa," I cringed; shouldn't have admitted that. "So I'm fine for the moment."

Anderson instantly put up a cautionary hand, "Not a drinker then? Throughout my career I've found inebriation more of a betterment than a detriment during work hours," he advised. Interlacing his fingers on the table, he continued, "To face what we face sober, I did that once upon a time. No longer, I am old," the self-proclaimed old man grinned, "I've found that it comes with its own share of benefits, including but not limited to, under-the-table whiskey."

"Alas in recognition of your Puritan pledge, I will not muddy my thoughts in return," he coughed into his hand. "I surmise whatever Wilkenson recommended me for requires the full capacity of my wits."

Goddamn, this man's voice was gravelly; it was comparable to ASMR, I wasn't sure whether to cringe or enjoy it. So I settled on ignoring it. "I wouldn't go that far; it is important to me–"

Anderson held up a hand, signalling for me to stop. "It is important to you and in consequence, as a representative of Human Resources, it is important to me. There's no need to justify yourself."

"Err, right, as you say. Before explaining my plight, could you explain the GOC poster?" I nodded towards the blue-white pentagram logo hanging on his wall. He might've dodged the question last time, I discerned. If not, well, I was still curious.

"Yes, it caught your attention right as you entered, did it not? I'm afraid the story isn't as exciting as you might've imagined." Anderson spread out his arms on the table, "Back when Site-72 was but a mere satellite 'RAISA' research site made for their pencil pushers, I was in my heyday as a Gock Strike Team Operator. Regrettably, eventually, I came across a phenomenon I wasn't supposed to come across."

Wasn't Strike Team Operators the GOC equivalent to the Foundations Mobile Task Forces? So I'm sitting across a veteran special forces soldier; that's a certified wowie.

His lips thinned, "Accordingly, I stood at a crossroads of ultimatums. Two choices were presented to me, neither of which I favoured. Those paths were simple in their duplicity; abandon my cause, be," Anderson raised his fingers, painstakingly slowly wriggling them to form air quotes. "'Honourably' discharged and receive amnestics powerful enough to permanently erase an entire career's worth of memories," he snorted. "Or persevere, holding the knowledge that for the rest of my life, I would always have to look over my shoulder. If vigilance failed: An unspeakable death."

Until now, I had remained quiet as he narrated. "You chose the second option," I stated.

Anderson's face twisted into an ugly grimace, "No. You presume, as I did then, that there ever was a choice." A bitter chuckle emerged from his lips. Although I had not known him for long, I felt that the sound was unfit, unnatural to be emerging from his larynx.

He closed his eyes, "I do not begrudge the second option; did I not live it every day? It exceeded all other consequences I'd ever risked, yes– all the same every Gock operative knows they are expendable, the Five Precepts demand it."

Anderson emitted a tired exhale.

I observed him, he looked haggard, my eyes flicked to the photo, his current state not unlike the picture.

The technical stuff he'd been saying went over my head but I understood the gist. He saw something he shouldn't have and suffered the ramifications that entailed.

The question remained: "What happened?"

Anderson opened his eyes, now misty, "I… It was terrifying-" From nowhere he violently slammed his elbow on the desk, doubling over in pain. "Urk!"

I stood up startled, watching him wide-eyed, I was frozen in indecision for a tick or two before rushing over to his side to help. He hacked a few brittle coughs, stuttering, "N-no, no – No! It's okay, I'm fine. I'm fine."

I gaped incredulously, "You don't sound fine!"

"S-sit back down, I'm alright," he huffed.

Quietly watching him recover for a moment, I said unconvinced, "If you're sure…" Heeding his command nonetheless.

I walked back and took a seat once more, meanwhile, Anderson steadied himself.

"So..? What was that?"

Anderson licked his lips, "That was a memetic fail-safe, a blunder by me," he took a deep breath. "It's a way of safeguarding top secret information. Should the person implanted start sharing highly classified information without the recipient verbally uttering the necessary access code, it reacts. For example, when an old fool overshares his past woes."

I held both of my palms up, "You don't need to explain anything classified or for that matter, anything at all. It was idle curiosity, nothing more." I tried to placate; can't have this guy going into cardiac arrest, he's my ticket out of here.

Anderson frowned, "I know. It is strange; I am usually more careful. A mistake like this, a rarity." He studied me, misty eyes clearing, "Don't feel responsible; it was my lapse. I trust you won't go yapping to the nearest person about what little you've heard?"

"I won't." Why would I? The whole situation sounded troublesome and I needed to stay in this guy's good books. Besides, implanted mental memetics used to prevent people from divulging info, I'm sure that's at least two human rights violations right there, as if I needed more motivation to get out of here pronto. I knew the Foundation employed low-level mind control methods as standard fare –they undeniably committed worse atrocities on a daily basis– very frightening to see mind control in practice regardless.

"Good. Very good." Anderson cupped his bearded chin in thought, "I do not owe you an explanation, but it does feel rather lacklustre to end the storytelling on a dreary note." He hummed, "Yes, why not? Might as well elaborate on the information that I can elaborate upon."

There's gotta be some way to increase my odds of getting vacation time. I flicked to the photo again; he's haggard. Hmm…

"To make a long story short, in the aftermath, I was poached by the Foundation. In the formative years of my employment under the Skippers, I was tasked to train internal security –Agents like yourself– for a time. By then, the years were catching up to me," he tugged on his salt-and-peppered beard for emphasis.

"Hence, I sought a less strenuous profession available in the Foundation. In the end, I decided to go the route of an administrative peon. Having no credentials or experience within the field of administration, it was hard to justify a transfer to the Human Resources Department." Anderson's lips twitched, "Continuously badgering the local Site Director and Assistant Director, along with a judicious amount of verbal sparring, not to mention the backing of my security colleagues, it was no wonder they were forced to cave." He chuckled, "It was not a decisive victory; a compromise was formalised, their quote-unquote, line in the sand."

I made polite noises of agreement to encourage him to continue. Anything to get brownie points, going for the long con here.

"I was to be a backup liaison specifically in matters relating to the Global Occult Coalition should the main liaisons be unavailable, that was the compromise. In poor taste perhaps but I accepted their terms. The Site Director's face the day the decision finalised, is a face I will remember to my dying days." Anderson's gaze, which had grown distant, refocused on me, "I transferred to Site-37, the administrative headquarters of the Foundation, learned under some of the best, believing I would work there until retirement." He shook his head lightly, "Then I received an order veiled as an offer, to be transferred to what I knew previously as Site-72. This site, now a backup site."

So the original site was called Site-72, huh. "So, now you're stationed here?"

Anderson nodded, "Now, I am stationed here, a backup liaison, in a backup site."

"Poetic," I said.

"Ironic," he corrected. "At this point, I'm of the conviction we've dallied long enough." Anderson gave me a meaningful look, "Please, tell me about your quarry."

Oh geez.

I leaned back, adopting a thoughtful pose to indicate that I was carefully formalising the best words to explain the issue. In reality, it's to buy time.

Well… here's the pitch I've been brewing: Anderson is a battle-hardened war veteran who has experienced a lot and I mean a lot of fucked up shit. No doubt.

I propose, to myself, that with the knowledge that he's a hard-bitten war dog of paranormal conflicts, I remove my helmet, visor, goggles and balaclava in response.

Why? Well, it's quite a gamble but I am reasonably certain that I look bad underneath my facility guard outfit. Not in the general attractive sense, more of a, 'oh god he looks like he's been through hell' kind of way. My hope is that when Anderson sees his fellow 'soldier' on the brink of exhaustion, it will elicit sympathy, increasing my chances of possible vacation/escape.

After all, I haven't eaten, I haven't slept, I've suffered many emotional whiplashes during a short period of time, and, uh, I've been unalived. Suffice to say, these last few hours have been incredibly stressful. This, I hope, should reflect in my appearance.

Whether or not it does, is of course completely uncertain. So should the attempt not work, at worst, I'll just be back to square one.

I started tugging on my chinstrap.

Y'know the feeling when your eyelids legitimately feel heavy and you've got to actually focus to make sure you don't doze off?

That's exactly what I am suffering right now, held at bay by sheer force of will and a small amount of manic disbelief at everything going on.

I reached up to my head and unfastened the chinstrap securing my helmet with a quick twist and pull. -hey my vision isn't tinted yellow anymore, thank god!- then I placed the head protection on Anderson's table, to his clear intrigue.

I am going with the flow (Translation: I don't know what I'm doing) and trying my darndest to succeed in my impromptu goal, which is to get to the surface and skedaddling far away from here. Will getting out of the facility solve the fact that I'm trapped in the SCP universe?

Next, I carefully unhooked my tactical gogs, sliding them up and off my face. As a result, the world instantly became brighter.

No. Nyet. That's a negatory chief.

Will it improve on my current circumstances?

Ehh, so-so. On one hand, I won't be in the immediate vicinity of murder-happy monsters, -and trigger-happy spooks!- On the other hand, the belief that distance equals safety is an obvious illusion.

…Yeah, I'm pretty fucked either way. Still, it's an objective to strive for and I can't stay in this facility forever.

Lastly, I hesitantly dragged my balaclava upwards. Cool air caressed the long-covered skin along the way. As the stifling cloth came off, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Turning to face Anderson fully, I met his eyes, as he met mine… I wonder what he sees.

AN: Hope this chapter passed the vibe check. It was a bitch to write. Had to rewrite it. That's why it wasn't posted in conjunction with the previous chapter. Still not 100% satisfied.

Next is an Interlude, for reference, it'll usually go, Chapter 1 Part 1, Chapter 1 Part 2, Interlude, Chapter 2 Part 1, Chapter 2 Part 2, Interlude and so on.

Reviews:

Uselesskhan69 - Glad to be back.

Locksoli - That means a lot coming from someone of your calibre. Hopefully, I can continue to deliver an enjoyable reading experience.

Guest - Glad it panned out well in the end, small mercies, yeah?

Watereater - High praise, Secret Laboratory isn't easily beaten.

ReGunner - Glad to be back and thank you for the praise!

Devonfazbear - Who knows? Well, I do. But spoiling everything wouldn't be fun.

Arclight001 - Yes… Strange stuff is certifiably going on. No doubt.

Anyways, thanks for reading.

That is all.